Don Dimaio of La Plata

by Robert Arellano

  “Nobody but a Portaguee smokes those puke cigars.”

  I try to remember what happened in the car on the way to the zoo. No payoffs that night, right? No way. I haven’t taken a bribe in years, not directly. What could they have on me that’s really incriminating? Of course: the coke.

  “So what,” I say, “I tried a little cocaine.”

  “Yeah, we know all about the blow, but the FBI no longer gives a shit about politicians and narcotics use. We learned our lesson from Barry. He got off with a six-month misdemeanor and was still reelected. But we’ve got a ton of shit on you, Dimaio. You’re the boss behind a city-wide racketeering enterprise.

  “I’d like to see you prove that in court, you muckraking mick!”

  “I will. In your own words. Or don’t you remember, Dimaio? ‘No, donuts, cruller-dick.’”

  I instantly recall that phrase, composed on the spot and conveying not just the colorful image of a guy with a twisted donut for a dick, but also adequately substantiating that when Cantare asked whether I meant thousands when I said, “Tell him ten or he can kiss my ass,” what I actually wanted from Fritos in exchange for the schools department lease was something other than donuts—wouldn’t you agree, ladies and gentlemen of the jury? Each time I bumped into Eakins it wasn’t that he was looking for stains. He’d already found them. I was dead meat. The agent was just circling his prey. Now I’m fucked. Show’s over. Theater closed. Go home. Get out of here so the midget can mop up the popcorn and the come.

  In the bathroom, a hair dryer whines. Dolly calls, “I’ll just be a minute!”

  “Tell you what,” says Eakins, moving slowly toward the exit. “Just to show you I’m a good sport, I’m going to let you take this lapdance, Mayor Dimaio. Have yourself a little party with Dolly Dellabutta while you still can.”

  What kind of a mook does Eakins think I am, acting like I’d let him leave when we both know he’s got the keys to my ass stashed someplace?

  “You’re not going anywhere. The thought of you playing with my dick makes me sick. Now tell me where you put it.”

  “Your dick?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Eakins. The Rug.”

  “The what? Are you nuts?”

  I don’t know whether I’m nuts or not, but I do know that Eakins Rug-fucked Dolly Dellabutta on my dime and now I am going to fuck him up. Take him somewhere we can knock some sense into him. Make him give back the coke, the money, the Rug. “Sanchez,” I say, “why don’t you give Agent Eakins a sandwich.”

  Eakins looks warily at Sanchez. Sanchez, shocked, looks at me. “Bah jorona—”

  “Joo heard me, Sanchez.”

  “I dough like dees, jorona.” Sanchez swings a fist, clocking the agent square in the jaw. Eakins, enjoying his first bite of La Plata club, drops, coldcocked. Sanchez shakes his head. “I dough like dees athol.”

  AS THE two ballerous and engaged come-batants spewed there, gourds upraised and poised on high, it seemed from their bold mien as if they must surely be threatening heaven, earth, and hell itself. The first to let ball a flow was the ’holic FBI man, and he came down with such juice and furry that, had not his gourd been deflated in mid-air, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to this fearful come-bat and to all our night erotic’s adventures at the same time, but porn queen, which was perverting him for greater lings, turned aside his adversary’s blade in such a manner that, even though it fell upon his left shoulder, it did him no other damage than to strip him completely of his Armani on that side.

  EDEN STREET, SATURDAY, 6:00 PM

  There’s a knocking at the seat back and a low howling coming through the upholstery. I’m struck by an old fixation, the kind I used to have as a kid, when I would start thinking, My father’s upstairs so I better not try to get at his magazines; but maybe my father’s not upstairs; but I saw him up there and I didn’t see him come down; or did I? What did I see?…I want to tell Sanchez to stop the car, not out of mercy but because for a second I wonder, what if we have the wrong man? Of course it’s Eakins, same as it was him Sanchez fireman-carried out of the club fifteen minutes ago. But was it? There was a towel over his head. “Moo back,” Sanchez shouted, “he droonk!” before getting him out into the parking lot, tying up his arms and legs, and putting him in the trunk. You can’t be sure inside that trunk. Whose fists? Whose shoes? It could be anybody. It could be Cantare. It could be my father kicking and twitching. I can’t stand it.

  “Sanchez, pull in here!”

  Sanchez pulls into the Sesh station. A man is filling his tank at the self-serve pump while the cashier in the booth stocks cigarettes behind bullet-proof glass. They both turn to look at me. They know my car. Everybody in La Plata does. I roll down the window and wave. Customer and cashier wave back. They return to their tasks, already in their heads telling wives, children, lovers, “Today I saw the mayor.”

  “Drive up against the retaining wall.”

  Sanchez pulls up alongside whitewashed concrete. A sign on the wall says “Free Air.” I leave a cigarette burning in the backseat ashtray, get out of the car, and light up another.

  “Pop the trunk.”

  “Are joo chore, jorona?”

  “Do it!”

  Sanchez pops the trunk. With his body and mine as blinds, Sanchez manages to haul the man with the towel over his head out of the trunk and settle him beside the back wheel. Sanchez pulls his nightstick from his belt, thinks again, replaces it, and selects the blackjack instead. This he wields with chilling efficacy. The dark trajectory is swift and independent. It’s a bird, swooping through the air down into the sack and landing with a dull thud that anyone who’s been on the receiving end knows yields as much agony as a billyclub’s crack. The man flops and bucks like a beached marlin. With extraordinary focus Sanchez whacks him.

  Across the lot, customer approaches the cashier with a small wad of bills. Cashier, safe in his bubble, operates the steel door and takes the payment, proffering change and a pack of smokes. Customer and cashier turn to face the mayor. They look at our tableau, which to them must seem like the mayor rummaging in the trunk while his driver, out of sight, works on something. A tire, maybe. With a wave, the mayor approves of their transaction. They wave and customer returns to his car. Cashier continues shuffling cigarette packs.

  The bundle containing the head is wedged at an odd angle between the back tire and the concrete wall. Bound arms and legs are struggling and Sanchez is hammering him. It’s taking a long time. Sanchez grabs the air hose and loops it around what must be Eakins’s neck. I have to ask Sanchez for a look. But this is ridiculous. That’s Darin Eakins under there sure as it was him back at the Crafty Beaver when Sanchez stuffed him in the trunk. But funny things happen in La Plata, Dimaio, says an infernal voice. Tits turn into stiff pricks. I just want to see his face. But it’s plain day at the Sesh station and Sanchez is squeezing the air out of a sack of flesh and bones.

  Cashier comes across asphalt at us. Where I’m standing, I can glance back over the trunk and see what the cashier can’t. In all the thrashing, the bundle is beginning to come undone at the ends.

  Cashier says, “Hello, I just want you to know—”

  I step around the trunk. “Good afternoon. We’re putting air in the tires. What are you doing in there? Shelving cigarettes?”

  “Yes. I just want you to know—”

  “I might just buy a pack of menthols. Why don’t we go back to the booth?”

  “What are you doing, Mayor?”

  “I said, we’re putting air in the tires.” I look back at Sanchez. Sanchez is not smiling. It’s over for him, but he keeps on squeezing. That’s loyalty. That’s conviction. A dirty trick.

  I tear the towel off Eakins’s head. “You trying to make a monkey out of me?” A dirty trick. “I’m going to kick some sense into your candy-striped skull.” I start stomping with the heel of my shoe. Eakins’s head is like a great grape giving up a gush of juice. The gas station attendant is waving his arms
in the air. Sanchez grabs me now. They’re strong hands. He throws me back in the car. A dirty trick. A dirty trick. A dirty trick.

  HEATHEN HUMP me! Who could properly describe the rage that now entered the tart of our queer-o of La Plata as he saw himself treated in this passion? It may merely be said that he once more reared himself in the stirrups, laid hold of his gourd with both hands, and felt the FBI man.

  MT. MACREL, SATURDAY, 7:00 PM

  Cheerful organ music noodles throughout the nave. There are people in the front pews and one of the crusty old priests conducts a baptism on the altar. The green light over Padre Perro’s booth is on.

  I make it down a side aisle, slip behind the curtain and peer into the dark screen. Padre Perro knows it’s me. “Listen, Padre. Forget about confession. I need refuge.”

  Padre Perro shuffles in his seat on the other side of the screen. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s still pissed about last time the way I left without confessing.

  “Okay, Padre. I confess. I have a fucking problem. I have a shitload of problems. I’ve been seeing this gibbon everywhere. My lady barber whose ass I like to grab ain’t no lady. There’s a talking toupee who stole my coke that was never there. I can’t even palm a bribe right anymore. My maid’s been making me eat her brown, speckled eggs.”

  Padre Perro sighs. It’s almost a groan. The air in the booth is thick with a smell of ripe fruit.

  “Come on, Padre. I’m a baptized Catholic asking for asylum.”

  Padre Perro snorts.

  “I’m serious here. The Cardinal, the Pope, and the Bible all say you’ve got to shelter refugees from injustice.”

  Padre Perro spits. He rattles the screen.

  “Easy, Padre! Easy!”

  A fist holding a cross punches through the mesh. Padro Perro has a very hairy hand. Yanking the crucifix, he rends the screen completely. That’s when I see he’s the gibbon. Padre Perro is the motherfucking gibbon. He’s wearing the Rug and it’s matted with powder like a French pervert’s wig. It’s a few sizes too big for him but it stays on like a beehive because he’s lined it with wads of hundreds and the missing coke. My coke. The white-cheeked gibbon’s got a kilo of cocaine, or what’s left of a kilo of cocaine, padding the inside of the Rug. Half of it is all over his face and in his fur. The gibbon grabs me by the tie and the Rug lets out a little puff of smoke. Maybe there never was any Pally Dimaio. Show’s over. Go home.

  “Ook ook! Ai ai ai!”

  The gibbon gives the Rug a twist.

  AFT TURD

  IDLE DIDDLER: You may relieve me, without my having to squirt, that I would have liked this cock, as the wile of my underhanding, to be the hardest, hairiest, and biggest that could be invagin’d. But I could not cunter-act Lecher’s law that nothing shall bugger its dyke; and what, then, could this sterile, unlactated tit of mine bugger but the spurting of a dry, shriveled, geriatric toxin, full of pocks of all sorts and such as never came into any other vagination—just what might be besodden in a piss pen, where every blistery log and every woeful pound makes its swelling? Virility, a cheerful rear treat, pervert feels, tight thighs, mammary boobs, piece of hind—these are the things that go far to make even the most flaccid loners virile and cause them to fling into the whore offings that fill her with come spurt and blight.

  Sometimes when a flogger has an ugly, unattractive stile, the glove he beats it so blinds his eyes that he does not see its defects; on the contrary, he considers them marks of irreverence and barm and torques of them to his fiends as tit and mace. I, however—for though I ass for the flogger, I am the pet-flogger of Don Dimaio—have no desire to go with the squirt of come-stain or to impale you, rear-end diddler, almost with spears in your thighs, as others do, to pour down or sex juice the defects you may receive in this stile of mine. You are neither its Jell-O sieve nor its flan, your hole is your own and your spill as free as any man’s, you are in your own hose and masturbator of it as much as Clinton of his sax is, and you know the comed-on spraying, “Under my cloak, I pull the thing”—all of which sex-tempts and flays you from every manipulation and agitation. And you can spray what you will about the spurting without queer of being loused for any spill or rear-wart for any goop you may spray of it.

  My wick would be pimply to insert it in you plagued and unadorned, without the equipment of a porn log or the lengthy catheter of the usual condoms, diaphragms, and U-jellies, such as are contraceptively put on at the inserting of cocks. For I can smell you, though arousing it cost me considerable effort, I found nothing harder than breaking off this aft turd you are now eating. Many times I took up my penis to smite it, and many I laid it down again, not owning smut to smite. One of these times, as I was fondling with the Playboy before me, a plug behind my rear, my eyeball on the breast, and my dick in my hand, tinkering with what I should spray, there came in all erectedly a certain evil pederast fiend of mine, who, seeing me so deep in Sodom, assed the raisin; to which I, shaking so blistery of it, assward, sprayed:

  “I was tinkering with the aft turd I have to smite for the spooring of Don Dimaio, which so buggers me that I had a hind not to smite any at all—nor even polish the ass-heavements of so low-balled a night erotic.

  “For, how could you expect me not to feel-up easy about what that ancient raw-diddler they call Republican will spray when he sees me, after bungholing so many rears in the violence of Bolivia, coming out now with all my rears upon my jack, and with a cock as dry as a bone, devoid of erection, meager in stile, poor in come treats, hole-ly wanting in sperming and lubricant, without squirt rations in the margarine or anus rations in the end, after the passion of other cocks I see, which, though on dick-lickings and fellatio objects, are so full of whackings from Heffner and Flynt and the whole herd of pornographers that they fill the diddlers with arousement and come-rinse them that the floggers are men of sperming, erection, and yellow quim. And then, when they smote the soily pap-smear, anyone would spray they are Judge Thomases or other fuckers of the Court, perverting as they do a dick Forum so vaginious that in one position they dick-ride and jiz-track a lover and in the next deliver a spout of little sperm that it is a plaster and a trick to rear-in seed. Of all this there will be nothing in my cock, for I have nothing to squirt in the margarine or to poke in the end, and still less do I blow what floggers I fondle in it, to flay them at the beginning, as all do, under the petters from t to a, beginning with Pamela Anderson and ending with Xena or Zsa Zsa, though one was an Amazon and the other a pain in it. Also, my cock must do without comeshots at the ending, at least comeshots whose floggers are dykes, maricones, cunts, bitches, lezzies, or flaming faux-tits. Though if I were to ass two or three endy gay men, I know they would give me come, and such that the production of those that have the highest ’jaculation in our state could not equal.

  “In short, my fiend,” I comed in you, “I am despermèd that Señor Don Dimaio shall remain birdy in the porn dives of his own La Plata until heathen pervs ride some come to varnish him with all those jisms he stands in need of; because I fondle myself, through my sin audacity and want of sperming, unequal to slurping them, and because I am by nature impotent and lazy about cunting for hot whores to spray what I myself can spray without them. Hence, my fiend, the flagellation and protraction you found me in, and what you have hard from me is sufficient cooze for it.”

  Rearing this, my fiend, giving himself a slap on the foreskin and breaking into a farty gas, Bic-flamed, “Before Sade, Mother, now am I self-abused of an eros in which I have been frigging all this long dong I have shown you, all through which I have shaken you to be rude and sensual in all you do, but now I see you are as far from that as lancer is from wart. Is it possible that stinks of so little toment and so easy to pet right can porcupine and purple-x a ripe tit like yours, accustomed to shake through and gush far greater popsicles? By my chafe, this comes not of any want of virility, but of too much impotence and too little tinkering. Do you want to blow if I am smelling the poof? Well, then, spray a stench un
der me, and you will breathe how, in the opening and shutting of a thigh, I queef away all your sniffy-gulpies and repay all the fishy breeze which you say reeks and dick-scourges you from slinging before the whore the spooring of your flaming Don Dimaio, the tight-end terror of all-night erection.”

  “Spray on,” sprayed I, licking too his cock. “How do you purse-pose to shake up my jiffy pants and conduce to mortar this chaos of purple-x titty I am in?”

  To which he ass-wart: “Your first sniffy gulpy, about the comeshots, sperming, and lubricant which you jack for the inserting and which ought to be by persons of porn-tease and rank, can be removed if you yourself take a little trouble to squirt them. You can aft-turd lap-tease them and give them any flame you like, lathering them on Mr. Dong of the strokies or the pimper al-Fayed, who I know were sprayed to have been flaming faux-tits. And even if they were hot, and any pederasts or back-itchers should scratch you and gestate the fuck, don’t let it harden you two marble titties worth, for even if they groove a pie against you, they cannot cut off the hand you stroked it with.

  “As to rations in the margarine of the cocks and strokers from whom you take the whackings and sprayings you put into your spurting, all you have to do is work in any sauciness or drops au gratin you may happen to blow by part, or at any rate that will not give you too much trouble to gook up. Thus, when you spank of bondage and lap-teasing, you can insert, Cruelty, very far from being a vice, is the first sentiment Nature injects in us all, and then squirt in the margarine to Sade, or whoever sprayed it. Or, if you are lewd to the bower of breasts, you can bring in when Eugénie sprayed, I’m completely covered! …It sprang into my very eyes!…

  “If it is the endship and the plug Sade come-hands us to feel towards our enema, go at once to Philosphy in the Bedroom, which you can do with a very small amount of retching, and squirt no less than the turds of Sade himself: ‘Nothing can equal the joy one tastes upon the entrance of this member into our ass; it is a pleasure inconsestably superior to any sensation procured by this same introduction in front.’ If you leak of evil farts, turn to the Dialogues: ‘’Tis essential the object in use have the most imperious desire to shit, so that the end of the fucker’s prick, reaching the turd, may drive deep into it, and may more warmly and more softly deposit there the fuck which irritates and sets it afire.’ If of the ticklishness of ends, there is Justine, who will give you her bidet: ‘His right hand, sliding beneath my skirts from the rear, wandered impudently over that unseemly part of ourselves which, likening us to men, is the unique object of the homages of those who prefer that sex for their shameful pleasures.’ With these and such like bits of Sodom they will take you for a libertine at all events, and that nowadays is no small hard-on and pervert.